So, when she left the Lime Hurst, she came home to dinner, and after dinner rode on to West Ham. In the parlour there she found Thekla at her spinning; but Mrs Rose (a most unwonted thing for her), sat by the casement idle, with her hands lying before her. "Hear you Mr Underhill is in prison?" were her first words. "Ay," said Isoult; "and that you, dear friend, are sore disquieted, for the which cause I come." "Disquieted!" she answered, the tears springing to her eyes. "Is it like I shall be quiet? How know I who shall be in prison to-morrow? They may burn mine husband and banish me before a month. And what is to come of Thekla?" "Dear mother," said Thekla, gently, "they will not put God in prison." "They may put there every servant that He hath," said she, bitterly. "I think you know, dear heart," replied Isoult, "that so long as we have any shelter to offer unto her, Thekla shall not be without one." "But how long may be that?" she answered; and, burying her face in her handkerchief, she began sobbing. Isoult hardly knew what to say, but she heard Mr Rose's step, and awaited his coming. He greeted her kindly, and then turning at once to his wife, said, "Sweet heart, why weepest thou?" "Mrs Rose feareth we may all be prisoned or execute afore a month be over," said Isoult, for Mrs Rose was sobbing too heartily to speak. "Truth," he answered. "What then?" "What then?" she cried through her tears. "Why, Tom, art thou mad? `What then,' to such matter as the breaking of our hearts and the burning of our bodies? `What then!'" "Then," said he, gently, "thou art not ready (as Paul was) `not only to be bound, but also to die' for the Lord Jesus? Is it so, my Marguerite?" "I know not what I were ready to do myself," she said, "but I am not ready to see thee nor Thekla to do so." "Well, sweet heart," said he, "methinks I am ready. Ready--to be confessed before the angels of God, and the Father which is in Heaven: ready--to wear a martyr crown before all the world: ready--to reign with Christ a thousand years! Is that matter to be wept for, Marguerite?" "There is something else to come first," she said, shaking her head. "There is so," replied he. "To confess Christ, ere He confess us: to be envied of angels, that have no such means of showing forth His glory: to give a very little thing for the Redeemer who gave all He is, and all He hath, for us. Is that, also, matter for tears?" "Ah, Tom!" said she, smiling through her tears, "thou turnest it all to the contrary. But thou knowest what I mean."